Cressida's Dilemma

“Is it wrong for a woman who is already ruined and believes she’s destined for hell to want to save her virtuous and innocent young sister from a life of unhappiness?”

Cressida frowned. “No,” she said dubiously, shaking her head and wondering on what basis Miss Mariah’s argument could be furthered. Slowly, she added as understanding dawned, “But if I were Minna’s unmarried sister, I’d rather die than know she’d sold her body to help me.”

“It’s not that simple, my dear.” Miss Mariah smiled sadly. “Indeed, it never is. You see, Minna has been made a handsome offer by a stranger who wishes for just five nights in her bed. It is an extraordinary offer, for it is generous enough to provide Minna with the means of offering her sister an avenue out of a lifetime of marital unhappiness and servitude. Yes, Minna feels it is abhorrent to sell her body…and yet what sacrifice would she not make to ensure her young sister does not endure the pain of being thrust into the hands of an uncaring man?”

Cressida’s shoulders slumped. It was all so confusing, and the more she heard of such tales, the more her own moral code shifted on its axis. Nothing was straightforward, it seemed. “What is Minna going to do?” Of course it was nothing to do with her, but the pretty, fair-haired girl could have been any of the debutantes she’d grown up with and who’d gone on to make comfortable marriages.

“She is considering accepting this offer, as I said. This man has not revealed himself, so that makes her decision difficult, but increasingly she seems to place less importance on her own life, which is ruined and unhappy, and more on securing her sister’s happiness through her own sacrifice.” Miss Mariah sent Cressida a warning look. “Nevertheless, Minna will not risk bringing an innocent child into the world to bear the shame of illegitimacy and to be forced into a life of slavery to men, so that’s why she’s consulted me on the many ways to prevent or limit the risk of conception, and indeed ways to prevent a pregnancy from proceeding.”

Cressida gasped. “From proceeding? Why, that’s murder!”

“Is it murder to drink the tea made from a common herb? Would you call a poor woman who has twelve children, no money and a drunken husband a murderer for drinking pennyroyal tea to regulate her courses?”

Cressida shrugged, unsure how to answer. All her ideas on morality had been founded using very different examples to support them.

Miss Mariah’s expression softened. “But I can help you before you need to resort to such drastic measures, for it is possible for you to enjoy marital relations without constantly fearing you’ll beget a child.”

Cressida leaned forward. The urge to learn filled her with hope. She wanted to know everything Justin knew. Knowledge was power. Cressida could use it to conduct her life and use her body as she wished. She didn’t have to be like the women Miss Mariah described. Theirs was another world and their reasons for wanting to avoid conception very different from hers, though they all had one thing in common—the need to be in control of their bodies and fertility.

The thought was radical. What woman did she know who thought that way? There must be something wicked and wrong with her, and yet was this the secret nobody was prepared to discuss in public?

How had Catherine succeeded in giving birth to two sons only in a marriage of similar length to Cressida’s? Did she already know what Miss Mariah was about to teach Cressida?

Fascinated, Cressida watched Miss Mariah reach into a crimson velvet drawstring bag. Upon the inlaid table in front of them, she laid out a small sponge and a brown bottle labeled vinegar together with a small, brown paper bag. Beside this she placed a strange, oblong object made of, if Cressida didn’t know better, some animal membrane.

“Men have been using French letters for centuries, but we women have our little secrets, too. Now, my dear, I am going to give you the kind of advice and information I’d have given my own daughter,” her voice hitched, “had I been able.”

Cressida didn’t miss the lapse of composure. She sympathized. A woman’s chief purpose was to beget and rear her children. Wasn’t she blessed to have had five, and all so robust, for at last Thomas appeared to be growing out of his childish maladies. This last week, for the first time, he’d run about Great-Aunt Jane’s country garden like a little colt. How she wished Justin could have seen it. She shook her head quickly to banish the thought and returned to the here and now. Poor Miss Mariah had had to forgo the joy of a family in order to support herself through the pleasures of the flesh, making money in perhaps the only way she was able.

The sheath of sheep’s gut—for that’s what Miss Mariah now said it was—hung limply from her fingers. “Of all methods, the French letter is the most effective means of preventing conception, though not all women can persuade their husbands or lovers of the need to use them, meaning of course they must have alternative methods at their disposal.”

Cressida’s cheeks burned, and she nearly choked on her horror as Miss Mariah began to caress the object, half smiling. “Some women, however, are able to induce their men to don the French letter by turning the process of easing it over their manly organ when excitement builds into a sensual game. If you wish for a demonstration, there are those in this salon—”

“No!” Cressida squeaked. “Just…explain it to me.” Had she really gone so far even as to ask that? For an explanation? She’d never heard of such a thing, yet now she looked at it more closely she could see how it must work.

“The seed which would otherwise be spilled inside the woman, who then may go on to conceive, is contained within the French letter, which can be washed ready for future use.” Miss Mariah handed it to Cressida. “Feel it and, if you wish, you may take it. It may be all you ne

ed to save you another twenty years of doubt and anguish if not the pain and danger of multiple pregnancies.”

Cressida took it reluctantly. “I’ll…take it, but I could never ask my husband to use such a thing,” she whispered, “however much I may wish it. Please don’t look so disappointed, it’s just that in my position I could never explain where I came by such knowledge.”

“Then you must induce him to come by the knowledge himself, and to encourage the pursuit of such knowledge. It’s up to you to convey to him your desire to limit your nursery so that he can take responsibility for his role in ensuring he doesn’t foist a child upon you every year.” Miss Mariah reached for the bottle of vinegar. “For centuries, women have understood that douches such as vinegar or lemon juice following the sexual act are beneficial for minimizing the risk of pregnancy, though of course it is the man who chooses coitus interruptus or to wear a French letter, who is most beloved of women who wish for the pleasures rather than the consequences of bedroom play.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I gather you fall into the category of wives who do at least enjoy the pleasures of the bedroom.”

Cressida nodded, for the first time able to look Miss Mariah in the eye. Everything the woman said was common sense, so why should Cressida act like a shrinking violent when she was here to gain the strength she needed to be the wife and bedfellow her husband desired?

“And now we come to the seeds of the Queen Anne’s Lace plant, another useful weapon in your armament.” Miss Mariah picked up the paper bag and reached for Cressida’s hand, turning up the palm and pouring some grains onto it.

“These seeds, when taken some days before, or even for some days immediately after the act, have proven enormously beneficial for many women seeking to prevent conception.”

Cressida stared at them. How tiny and harmless they looked. Unlike a bottle of vinegar in her dressing room and a hasty exit to douche herself, which would alert Justin’s curiosity if not concern, she might easily swallow a handful of these seeds.

“Where can I get these?” she asked, aware of the excitement in her voice.

“I have a dear friend who is proficient in the herbal medicines, and she supplies me from time to time. You can take these now.” A warning note crept into Miss Mariah’s voice. “However, I would prefer that you discussed your fears with your husband before you secretly went about finding ways to limit your family. Indeed, this is a discussion for the two of you, otherwise grave misunderstandings could arise.” Her expression clouded. “I know that more than anyone.”

Despite the lecture and the dampening knowledge that she must indeed speak to Justin, Cressida felt the excitement building of so many possibilities within her grasp. If what Miss Mariah was telling her was true, Cressida could look forward to enjoying long, loving sessions with Justin and loving a smaller family than otherwise might be the case.

Tending to Great-Aunt Jane had been a trial. While Cressida had nursed her fractious relative, she’d also nursed her own confusion, her lackluster spirits bolstered by the daily, loving letters her husband had sent her. Wonderful Justin deserved far better than simple, fearful Cressida. However, as Cressida had wrinkled her nose at the foul-smelling ointment she’d used to rub her ungrateful great-aunt’s arthritic legs, she’d also found herself blushing as she’d channeled her mental energies into concocting a thrilling scenario that would set Justin’s senses on fire. Thanks to the now dreamlike experience of Mrs. Plumb’s back chamber and Miss Mariah’s instruction on lovemaking without consequences, Cressida’s marriage, she now felt with increasing conviction, was about to take off in a whole new, thrilling direction.